Third Time's a Charm
by bugsfic
Summary: Sometimes it takes practice to make perfect.


Lucien had been right; he did snore. Not the rafter shaking of Jean's father, but how she imagined a whale would breathe, deep and powerful. He was a dark form in the froth of silver satin bedding, much like such a great sea creature as it crested a wave.

She was curled in a chair by the hotel room window, watching him, her legs tucked up to her chest. Chiffon negligees were not intended to keep one warm on a wedding night.

Jean wished she was home, her thickest dressing gown wrapped tight. The only sound would have been the crackling fire before them and chirping frogs outside. Angrily buzzing Melbourne traffic rose from the street below to their suite, an abrasive sound.

That's why things didn't feel...right. The Lucien and Jean who were so comfortable together in Ballarat, with slow tender kisses in the lounge while the wireless set played, passionate goodnights at the foot of the stairs, his fingers tracing her lower spine as he passed her in the kitchen—so much promise of this night to come...

A promise unfilled.

She shifted in the chair, her muscles still sore from unaccustomed exertion but her body was also thrumming like a car waiting for traffic lights to change. Unable to sleep, she found herself replaying the day, looking for the moment when it went awry.

The wedding reception had been delightful but draining, as she tried to ignore the occasional sideways glances, barely contained smirks, quick critical looks over her gown. As the party wound down, she'd simply wanted to go home then allow nature to take its course.

Instead, they'd gotten on a train for Melbourne, collapsed in a first class compartment, exhausted and over-excited like children after a day trip. Lucien's gaze had locked with hers across the velvet seat, and they'd dived at each other—

"Oh, pardon me!" In the compartment's narrow doorway, a large woman clutched her straw handbag to her bosom. The wax cherries on her hat waggled disapprovingly.

Lucien slid back to his side of the seat and crossed his legs. Jean readjusted her hat and smoothed her hair.

The lady glanced at the card pinned outside the compartment. "Sorry, wrong one!" With that, she scurried off.

"I paid for the whole compartment," Lucien explained smugly, sliding back to Jean's side.

Winding her arms around his neck, she returned his mischievous smile before their lips met. His efficient fingers made quick work of the buttons of her suit jacket. His touch, heated and strong through her satin blouse—

The door slammed open, and "Tickets, if you please!" was bellowed by the conductor. He peered down at them with great disapproval. They scrambled apart once again and rearranged their clothing.

Lucien searched his pockets, muttering, until Jean finally remembered through the fog that the tickets were in her handbag. The conductor punched the tickets while looking back and forth between them, suspicion roiling off him.

Lucien obviously felt he had to explain. "We were just married." He took the offered tickets with his left hand, his new ring flashing.

"I see."

Lucien warmed to the topic. "Going to Melbourne to start our honeymoon." He draped his arm around Jean's shoulders and drew her close.

"I see," the conductor repeated, pursing his mouth. He checked the curtains on the windows between their compartment and the outer corridor, and ensured they were tied open securely. Briskly, he said, "Just be sure you wait till we get to Melbourne then. The railway line has _rules_."

After that humiliating moment, no amount of cajoling from Lucien could get Jean to even kiss him again, let alone anything more.

At the hotel reception desk, he was no better. He sparkled with excitement. "Yes, down from Ballarat...our ship leaves Tuesday morning...but the honeymoon is starting tonight—"

A flush rose on Jean's face and she gripped her handbag strap tightly as the very smooth and polished manager glanced at her quickly, yet thoroughly. He said only, "Newlyweds?" but his incredulous tone made Jean want the ground to open up and swallow them.

But Lucien beamed brighter. "Yes, newlyweds again after a bit of a break." He chuckled and wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Boy!" called the manager. A porter slid off his stool behind the counter and ambled forward. He was closer to thirty than a boy. He gathered their luggage and led the way to the lift bay.

The silence in the lift was stifling. Lucien reached out and traced her bare wrist between her glove and sleeve with his fingertip but she gave him a quelling look, and he shifted away, his expression hurt. She wanted to slap him; she wanted to rip off his shirt. Her toe began to tap excitedly.

The porter started to whistle when the lift operator opened the doors on their floor, a jaunty tune that made those other guests in the corridor look at them, causing Jean even more discomfort.

"The honeymoon suite," the porter announced much too loudly before unlocking the door, and handing the key to Lucien.

Lucien reached for Jean, and in a panic that he planned to carry her over the threshold, Jean darted inside the room. The porter followed, showed them the luxuriously appointed bathroom, then offered to open the windows—they declined—all while Jean tried not to look at the large bed that seemed to dominate the room.

Lucien tipped him generously and herded him toward the door.

"Will you be wanting champagne? Room service?"

"Why look at the time," Lucien said without checking his watch, "we'll be making it an early evening, I think," and closed the door on the porter's smirking face.

The room was quiet except for Jean's thumping heart. At least she assumed he could hear it. He leaned against the door and tipped his head to smile at her, unsure and gentle. She had dropped her handbag and gloves in a chair, and had crossed the room to him with rapid steps.

She'd wanted him for so long, and he'd made no secret how much he'd wanted her. It should have been easy and automatic. The passion certainly had been there, she thought, shifting in her cold seat.

He'd flicked the lights off before striding to meet her. Welcome darkness, the heat of his touch, the strength of his limbs as she grasped at him. From standing to lying on the bed, pressed down by his weight, his rapid breathing filling her skull. Their hands and elbows kept clashing as they tried to tear each other's clothes off, their kisses missed mouths, and would land on eyes, ends of the nose, the bedcover.

Somehow they got enough clothing off for skin to touch skin. His groan thundered in her ear, even as he wrestled with her undergarments. She joined the fight, trying to tug her girdle off.

There was a ripping sound and Lucien stopped in horror, but Jean only tossed the garment over his shoulder and grabbed his neck to pull him back down to her. She suddenly wished there was light to see his face. Surely his expression would be something she'd never seen before, and she wanted to do so now.

"Please, Lucien." Then she was glad for the darkness as her face flooded red. What was she pleading for?

He answered with a thrust, and Jean suddenly was bereft of air, her breath caught in her throat. She went limp with the sheer bliss of completeness, her arms spread above her head with abandon. She was off in her familiar world of fantasy, with a Lucien all around her, his smell, his heat, his strength...only to come back to her body with a thump of the headboard against the wall and having an awful sense of not remembering how to do this anymore. She was running late to catch the tram, so to speak. Lucien was huffing and gasping, his hips pistoning—she couldn't match his rhythm. She grasped his slippery arms, his heaving torso; from the pitch of his cries, she knew he was close, but she felt as though she'd shot past her stop on that tram. Every pore on her body tingled from the overstimulation of his skin sliding across hers, the power of his thrusts, reaching deep within her, grazing her clit, but she kept greedily rolling each sensation like a precious gem in her fingers, rather than riding out the storm with him.

"I love you so much," he had moaned, and had collapsed beside her. He seemed barely conscious as she'd tenderly kissed his neck, his brow, murmured, "Me too," and had helped him from his remaining clothing, then under the covers. She'd removed her own garments, but instead of joining him in bed, had found her negligee and had retreated to the chair.

In the darkness of the room, she heard him stir from his sleep with a groan and a grumble. His arm flopped out, searching for her instinctively. As always, she was drawn to him, and came to sit beside him.

Lucien felt marvelous. Bloody fantastic. Wonderfully weakened by passion and sated desire. And for once, had had soul-healing sleep. Wound up with anticipation, he'd not truly slept for two days prior to the wedding. But it had all been worth the wait and frustration.

Dimly, he heard Jean's familiar fretful hum, that sound she made when he'd disappointed her in some way.

Fretful.

He shifted and cracked an eyelid. In the dim light, Jean gave him a tentative smile and stroked the line of his beard from cheek to jaw.

He returned the smile, unsure, and replayed the specific details of their coupling in his mind.

His intentions had been to make slow, sweet love to his wife. In the months after she'd set the date and he knew this was all really going to happen, he had been creating elaborate scenarios in his mind, each more erotic and intricate than the last. That's not what had occurred. More importantly, something very specific had not occurred for Jean, he realised with horror.

He considered asking if she wanted an annulment, but instead, squeaked out: "Hello there."

"Hello," she said softly, and kissed the corner of his mouth. But he saw the uncertainty in her gaze, questions unanswered, needs unfulfilled.

He rose on his elbows, determined to face down his shame. "Well then," he said much too heartily.

"Yes, right," she said uncomfortably. Hidden in shadows, this large, nearly naked man was a stranger. She quickly scooted out of the way when he leapt from the bed and hurried to their luggage, diverting her gaze from his bare flanks. He rummaged through his suitcase, then darted into the bathroom.

Unsure what to do, she stood...then found herself making the bed. The act of tidying calmed her nerves. When she noticed their garments strewn about, she picked them up and folded them carefully. She found her torn girdle and hurriedly put it in the bin.

He appeared in the lit doorway and she stifled a sound of distress. She hadn't seen him wear that particular black satin dressing gown with its lurid embroidered Chinese dragons in years.

"Hello, Mrs Blake," he said, his voice low and smooth.

Disconcerted at her pained reaction to his affectionately meant words, he moved to the phone as though that had been his original intent. "Hello, this is Dr Blake...yes, honeymoon suite." He winced at the term now. "Could you please send up a bottle of Dom Perignon?" Perhaps a little something to take the edge off...

When he hung up, he realised there would be a few minutes of stiff silence to fill. Jean stood across the room, the whites of her eyes showing.

"Your gown is lovely," he said, meaning it. The pale pink chiffon made her skin glow with a pearl's sheen.

"Thank you. So is yours." Jean cleared her throat.

He quirked a smile. "Thank you," he murmured, plucking at the tail of his dressing gown's tie. He eased in her direction. "You look a bit cold though," he suggested, reaching for her. "Come and get warm."

She stepped easily into his embrace. He'd washed in the bathroom, and smelled like her Lucien. She snuggled her head under his chin, rubbing her temple against his beard. Her hand stroked up his neck, leading his mouth down to hers—

A loud rapping at the door made them jump apart.

"I'll get that," he said and practically ran to the door. Just as he opened it, she realised she was in a nearly transparent gown, and dashed to the bathroom. While in there, listening to the muffled exchange between him and the porter, she brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick. It took all her effort to keep her hand steady.

When she heard the hotel room door close, she opened the bathroom door, only to discover him right there about the rap. She found herself oddly angry at that. He shouldn't be so eager; she wished he would just get on with it.

He whirled away in a flash of shimmering satin, and poured them two glasses of champagne.

Handing her one, he said, "To us," and clinked the glasses. A bit sloshed on her hand.

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

"It's fine." Without a thought, she lifted her hand and licked away the champagne, only to raise her gaze and see he was watching hungrily. She smiled nervously.

He took the glass from her loose grip and put the two glasses aside. Gazing down into her wondering face, he was determined to implement all those plans he'd so feverishly made. He would have a better showing this time. Slow, go slow, he reminded himself as he cupped her flushed cheeks with his shaking hands. Give her everything she deserved. He'd been a brute the first time and now was the opportunity to treat her right.

He kissed her carefully, like her mouth was bruised. She couldn't even taste the champagne on his lips. Leading her to the bed, he neatly turned back the covers and slipped the negligee from her shoulders to reveal the nightdress. He reached for the satin ties at the neckline, but his fingers wiggled as a racehorse dances in the starting gate, then he dropped his arms to his sides.

Giving her an uncertain smile, he removed his own dressing gown and fussily arranged it on the back of a chair while she waited, shifting from foot to foot. Tension built in her chest until she didn't think she'd be able to breathe. He turned back, gave her another one of those smiles, and guided her to sit, then lie on the mattress. For a horrible moment, she thought he was going to kiss her forehead and go sleep in the chair.

He seemed confused. Realising she'd left no room for him, she quickly scooted over and he sat on his side of the bed. His wide shoulders were quivering. She smoothed her hands across his back, feeling the knotted, tense muscles under the silk pyjamas.

"Please, Lucien," she said once more.

He lay down beside her and pulled the covers up to their necks. She rolled on her side to face him, not knowing what to do next. So she waited.

He looked into her face, seeking an intuition as to what she needed. He'd failed her once already. She was a strong woman, but also sheltered in some ways. He had to remember she'd led a simple life for years, and had clear, strong moral barriers. His brutish behaviour would be accepted as a husband's due, but now he needed to show her that he revered and worshiped her.

A gentle kiss, dry and chaste. His hands hovered over her breasts for a moment, then he decided not to paw at her, but to give her whisper-soft caresses. Even then, she gave a gasp and a whimper, so he became even more gentle. If only her scent wasn't so intoxicating...

He was reining himself so tightly that he was shaking. If he touched her bare skin, he'd lose control again. Best to just barely touch over her gown. Her sigh sounded indignant and impatient, he noted, perplexed.

He carefully scooted down his pyjama trousers, making sure to keep his urgently twitching cock away from her. She was tentatively stroking his neck and his collarbone, but she wasn't unbuttoning his top. He took this to mean she didn't want his sweaty, heaving torso pressing down on her. Instead, he carefully lifted her leg and draped it over his hip. With just his fingertips, he drew small circles on her thigh, but even that seemed to make her breathing increase distressingly.

Best to keep this slow, steady pace, he decided. His kisses remained measured and respectful. He gathered her closer, with wide sweeps of his hands across her back. She responded by fretfully plucking at his buttons but not opening them. The poor dear was frightened, he realised with horror. He must be even more gentle.

When he finally reached between her legs, she jerked as though he'd branded her. He nearly lost his nerve, but knew he had to show her his deep love and esteem. He cautiously slid his fingers through her folds and was surprised to find her aroused. From her shallow pants and head turned into the pillow, he thought she was just tolerating his touch.

Slowly, he slid inside and began measured, shallow thrusts. Her pained gasp nearly made him stop but he felt his own desire suddenly, horribly building. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. Grinding his teeth until he was sure she would hear, he tried to hold back his passion. At least he couldn't pound into her in this position.

Still, he was nearly blind with the need to come. Her lithe body, silk encased and soft as the shadows, undulated against him. The only way to keep from exploding was to ease back until he wasn't fully seated. This angle did mean his length slid against her clit, and she began to whimper more loudly. At last! No longer careful, he gripped her hips and increased the pressure until her cries melded to one yelp of completion. Relieved, Lucien let his own orgasm come and felt that sudden exhaustion again. He really was too old for this, he thought as he fell back against the pillows.

Still, he'd better check... "How was that?" he asked, sounding too much like a doctor even to his own ears.

"That was...nice," she said carefully but he was already sliding into sleep again. He managed to flop an arm around her to keep her from running off this time. He really should give her some cuddles and kisses, but love-making left him utterly knackered. Sloppily, he pressed his lips to her temple and he took some comfort from her returning his kiss. He could feel her smile against his cheek as he drifted off.

Jean wished she could sleep too. Her mind was going again. It was wonderful to lay her head on Lucien's shoulder and breathe his scent in deeply, to drape her arm over the swell of his belly and revel in his even, easy snores. It was just...was this going to be the highlight of their nights? It had been lovely, truly...just not what she'd expected. For such an impulsive, passionate man, it wasn't very exciting.

These fretful thoughts snarling like her knitting wool, she dozed fitfully. Only to have an odd sort of half-wakened dream where she and Lucien danced, kissed in the kitchen, she walked naked into the Colonists' Club to everyone's shock, Lucien pulled her into a closet, his hands all over her body, confident and knowledgeable of her needs—

She woke, and wiped her tears on his pyjama front. Those silk pyjamas, a remnant of another life he had lived. Did he want that exotic life back? She wasn't Mrs Beazley anymore, with her made-over secondhand clothing. He'd insisted she buy a new wardrobe, gave her jewellery, but would she be good enough for the role of prominent doctor's wife, Mrs Blake?

Around and around in her mind, until it was simple fragments of thoughts...perhaps he just didn't find _her_ very exciting...however were they going to get through this four months alone...hadn't he been _larger_ the first time?

Jean woke at dawn as she always did. Lucien was still sleeping deeply. He wasn't a morning person at the best of times, and yesterday had been a very trying day, no matter how she framed it. She slid out from under the covers, feeling guilty for some reason. Quickly grabbing some clothing for from her suitcase, she entered the bathroom and dressed. He was still sleeping when she came out, she saw with guilty relief. Carefully, she lifted the room key so not to make it jangle, and opened the door slowly. With her heart in her mouth, she hurried down the corridor to the lift. She asked for the ground floor, avoided the speculative look from the lift operator on the ride down, and passed the dozing night desk clerk as she left the hotel.

The streets were quiet but for a few early delivery trucks and street cleaners. When they'd arrived in the taxi the evening before, she'd noticed the familiar shape of a church on the opposite corner from the hotel. Entering, she found it was actually a cathedral, with a golden altar, grand soaring nave, and a whole row of confessionals. Even though most were empty, she sat for a few minutes on a nearby pew and said a few fretful, disjointed prayers. Finally, she entered an empty booth and waited, fidgeting with her gloves.

She jumped when a low voice spoke through the screen: "What did you wish to confess?" echoing Father Emery's words just a few months ago.

And just as then, she didn't know what to say. Yet she'd been felt drawn to this familiar place that had given her answers so many times before in times of trouble. The morning of her wedding to Christopher, she'd gone to confession. It had been the most difficult thing she'd done in her short life, even more than telling her mother about the baby. But it had also felt like such a great cleansing to unburden her soul to Father Morton, even though he'd called her a wicked girl.

Yesterday morning, she'd nearly slipped away from the house to go to Sacred Heart, but only knowing that Father Emery would be waiting there, perhaps even expecting her, had kept her away. She'd still felt empty for not having done it.

What was her sin?

"I've not been a good wife."

"How long have you been married?"

"Um..." She fought a sob. "Not long," she finally said lamely.

"I see—"

"We were married yesterday," she admitted, the tears coming now, and was instantly furious when she heard a stifled chuckle.

Indignant, she half rose to leave, but he said, "Had you been married before, my child?"

Child? Her?

"Yes," she said stiffly. "I am a widow." Then hoped that he wouldn't ask about Lucien's marital status. She really shouldn't have come—

"How long has it been?"

She had to think. "Nearly twenty years."

"Perhaps you're out of practice," the priest said, the humour still in his voice.

She went crimson.

"And you'd kept your virtue this whole time?"

"Of course," she snapped, but also casting her eyes upward quickly. What they got up to in the twilight was between her, God, and Lucien, after all.

"So it's been a good long while since you've been a new bride."

"Yes," she muttered.

"Perhaps you should give it more than a day before you see your marriage as a failure, my child."

Having no other reply, she made a grumbling noise before finally forcing out, "Yes, Father."

Sounding downright cheerful, he told her to say ten rosaries, then reminded her, "Even the Holy Mother's marriage got off to a bit of a rocky start."

Not sure if she completely saw the comparison, Jean still thanked him, and returned to the pew. With the rhythm of the familiar words, she did find some peace, and more importantly, resolve. This was no longer her home; that was with Lucien, no matter where he was.

She opened the hotel room door as quietly as she could, but there was no need. Lucien sat in a chair, his head in his hands. She smelled the whisky before she saw it; a full glass was on the table out of arm's reach for him. Her practised eye noted only the one glass had been poured from the bottle.

He slowly raised his head. His hair was ruffled, the curls starting to flip up from his normally slicked down scalp. He wore a singlet and his pyjama trousers. The room now filled with light, she realised this was the most of his naked skin she'd ever seen. His bare feet and the swell of his soft belly somehow weakened her heart. His thick arms slipped to drape over the sides of the chair dejectedly. He lifted his gaze to meet hers steadily as she closed the door behind her.

"Hello," she said awkwardly. A few lame excuses or weak lies as to where she'd been quivered on her lips, but instead, she put down her handbag, slipped off her coat, and went to him.

His hand took hers and pulled her down to curl into his lap. She toed off her shoes and snuggled her head into the crook of his neck. If nothing else, this felt right and secure.

She'd only meant to give him a peck as a reassurance, but she caught his mouth as he was taking in a shattering breath, and the kiss was instantly intimate and deep. She buried her fingers in those curls, tugging them with forbidden delight.

When they broke apart to breathe, he said, "Good morning, Mrs Blake," against her lips, and she smiled. She was Mrs Blake, wasn't she? She rolled her ring around her finger...yes, yes, she was.

In his secure embrace, she allowed herself to relax and as if in one of her dreams, she traced the rise and dip of his muscles, bone and soft flesh from his neck, over his smooth shoulder, down his arm to where fine, sparse hair covered the corded tendons. Now it was all hers; scars, loose tummy, and creaking joints. She'd take it.

He didn't ask for an explanation, but squeezed her hip. Her legs shifted at the size of his palm, and the promise in his nimble fingers. Her fingertips found a puckered ridge, then the paler stretch of another scar, a tear is his lovely skin. She pressed a kiss to it.

At his pained moan, she met his gaze.

"You are so beautiful," he said again, and tears pricked her eyes. His honesty was her touchstone; she never felt insecure in his presence.

After taking a deep breath, she stood, shucked her jacket, unzipped her skirt and let it drop. Her hands trembled a bit as she unbuttoned her blouse, but it was with excitement. When the blouse slid from her shoulders, and Lucien's eyes widened, she realised he hadn't seen her in this state of undress either. Shyness nearly stopped her, but his simple, happy smile as he leaned forward gave her confidence.

When she unsnapped her stockings, he whispered, "Give here, love," motioning for her to put her foot on his knee. This time when his touch was light as he rolled off the stocking, it made her shudder with desire.

But before she could remove her corset, he opened his legs and urged her into the cage of his limbs. He made quick work of the fasteners on this final garment and as it slid down her body, his thumbs stroked her bared skin. She kept her gaze locked with his intense one to fight her embarrassment, but the chilled air prickled her flesh. She turned to the bed. He stopped her and pulled he back into his lap.

"Please, Jean," he said, and this broke her. She brought his mouth back to hers, welcoming his lips and tongue with her own caresses. His great hands swept over her, strong and confident, leaving paths of flushed skin. As the morning brightened the room, she felt bold instead of sinful, just doing what was natural and necessary. He led her to straddle his thighs on the chair, urging her to rise on her knees so he could first brush his chilly nose and beard along her breasts before suckling gently. She gasped and writhed, clutching at his head but frustrated with his short hair, and could only get some satisfaction by turning her nails into his scalp.

He grunted in pleasure and bucked under her. Contact with the bulge still sheathed in his pyjama bottoms made her eyes snap open and her breathing speed. She plucked at his singlet in a fit of pique, forcing him to wriggle out of it. She pressed her damp breasts at his smooth chest, empowered by his obvious frustration. Seeking the advantage, he wedged his hand between their bodies, drawn by the heat between her legs.

Welcoming the invasion, she sank down on his fingers, tilting her hips to give him access to her clit. She sought pleasure instinctively and dim memories of what felt right and good. The shimmering sunlight, refracting through the sheer curtains, bathed and anointed them. She gripped his arm, not to stop him, but to feel the power in the muscles as he stroked deep, then out to roll her clit. "Oh that's lovely," she said with satisfaction and he chuckled.

"But—" Reaching between them, she ignored his grunts of irritation and untied the cord at the waist of his pyjama bottoms. Once he saw her intent, he lifted his hips so she could push down them down. Her courage faltered. Then his head fell back, exposing his corded neck, and her mouth latched onto his pulse at the same time she gripped his cock. His heartbeat leapt under her tongue. She quite liked this sense of power over him, how he bit his lower lip and his eyelids fluttered. And having him in hand reassured her on another concern.

Kissing up to his mouth, she hummed against his lips. He opened his eyes and gasped, "Please, Jean."

She wrapped her arms around his neck tightly and they kissed, glorious deep kiss, where they belied their urgent need with slow caresses of tongues. His hands on her hips, squeezing, guiding her down, pressing the breath right out of her until she lolled her head back, calling his name out in the still room.

"Right here, darling," he promised, gathering her in his strong arms. They rocked together in the chair, a movement of comfort. They'd always have each other; she knew it. They nipped and kissed at each other's necks and faces, their mouths meeting, then travelling across flushed skin again. She didn't know when it started, but a bird's wings flutter low in her abdomen grew to a phoenix rising with flames through her body.

She whispered in Lucien's ear, as though sharing a secret, "Hold me."

He gathered her close and surged upward to meet her shimmying hips. "Bloody fantastic," he groaned as his own body pulsed to completion.

Limp, she fell against his chest, her palms smoothing his damp limbs in a half-hearted thanks.

"Now you can go to bed," he said, somehow summoning the energy to stand, kick aside his bottoms, and carry her.

But rather than put her under the covers, he laid her atop the silver satin duvet. The chill made her nipples tighten and her damp skin pimple. Pushing back her tangled curls, she looked for him and his reliable warmth, but he was snagging his dressing gown and tugging it on. The mattress dipped as he stretched out beside her. Blissfully happy, she reached to pull him close, but he pinned her hands above her head and kissed her before saying, "I'm not finished."

His kisses started at her mouth, then found every spot he could gain a reaction. Under her jaw, where the nerves jumped at the stimulation. Over the leaping pulse in her throat. Between her breasts to tickle with his beard as he nipped and suckled. Down her ribs until she gasped out giggles. Finally her hands were freed as his tongue circled her navel, his teeth biting at her hipbones, and his warm breath made her legs tremble and writhe on the slick satin.

She heard a thump of him sliding off the edge of the bed and came out of her reverie. "Lucien?"

"Right here, my dear," he said cheerfully as he draped one of her legs over his shoulder.

What was that silly man up to? His kisses and light bites to the inside of her thighs quickly made it clear. Pressing her palms to her flaming cheeks, Jean couldn't believe he would...surely not after—and then he did.

Gentle strokes of his tongue, mindful that she was still sensitive and swollen, blowing softly to cool her heat, finally to suckle as he squeezed her buttocks and thighs, a play of excruciating gentleness and delightful pain. They descended into wickedness and she welcomed it, squeezing her own breasts and drumming her her heels on Lucien's shoulders with abandon. She managed to raise her head and see his face buried between her legs, his wide back hunched with its silk dragon crawling up his spine. The flames from the creature's mouth burned her with sin and pleasure, loss and completeness. She shattered, the fragments glistening in the bright sun that lit the bed. Her body had no weight, and yet she couldn't even lift an arm to welcome Lucien back up on the mattress.

"Just a tick, my darling," he said. Dimly she tried to focus, but could only see a blurry figure moving to the bathroom, then returning. Delightfully warm towel cleaning her up, then rolled her over and under the bedcovers.

She hoped to sound dignified when she said, "thank you," but it came out slurred and sleepy. Sleep did sound wonderful, but she needed one more thing—

"Lucien, please," she mumbled, flailing her arm vaguely toward the comforting lump that returned to sit beside her.

"Coming, dear," he said, tunneling under the covers. He smelled clean, but also a new scent to her sharp senses. It was the two of them together. His arms came around her, pulling her close.

She welcomed his embrace. Sliding her leg between his shins, and wrapping her arm around his middle, she rested her head on his shoulder, as a bird settles into its nest.

He kissed her temple. "That's just a start."

Forcing open one eye, she tried to give him a baneful stare but failed. "I've got a few things up my sleeve for you too," she managed to say haughtily.

His chuckle shook through her body in a pleasing manner. She tightened her hold around his middle. "After a bit of a rough start," he murmured, "but third time's a charm."

~ end

E/N: thank you to aussie girl and crinkley brown leaves for making this sound less American!


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